Passchendaele
by FiBeeN
Summary: Jack Robinson went to war and he was never the same again. This story is set during the Battle of Passchendaele in 1917. Warning: This is a war story and that inevitably means blood and death.
1. Chapter 1

Hello readers

This is a stand alone about Jack's participation in the Battle of Passchendaele (pronounced Pa-shun-dale) 1917. There are a number of references that those of you who read my first fic Providential Heart will recognise but it won't be a problem if you've never read it.

Warning: This is a war story and though I've tried not to make it too graphic (I don't personally like blood and guts) there are some chilling moments that may upset some readers.

If you're wondering about the pic attached to this fanfic; it's a photoshopped picture of a young Nathan Page.

I hope you like it. Please leave a review, they are more important than you realise.

PS sorry to all the people who have been really hating Rosie. Remember, Jack once loved her very much. That's why he married her.

xxxx

12th October 1917

Front line outside Passchendaele

Jack Robinson was hunched in the tiny dugout, ankle deep in muddy water (despite the hard working pump) and ignoring the steady drip running down his back. He had become so accustomed to the smell of the dank mud, rotting human waste and unwashed bodies that he hardly noticed them and struggled to read his letter in the flickering light of a small lantern.

_29 September 1917_

_Mr Darling Jack_

_After not hearing from you for so many months, three of your letters arrived this morning. I love the way you write a little every day. It was such a relief to know that you are thinking of me so often. Dearest, I think of you every moment of every day too, especially as I fall asleep at night wishing that I could hear the sound of your breathing and feel your arms around me._

_I think though, that one of your letters may have gone astray between the one dated 29th June and the one you wrote on 14th July, because you say nothing of your promotion. It was reported in 'The Argus' last week as "To be Lieutenant-2nd Lieutenant J.D. Robinson". I am so proud of you my darling and now Bettina Sims can stop boasting about her husband the Temporary Lieutenant. She said congratulations very prettily but I think she was a little green. You must write again soon and tell me all about it so that I can tell all our friends._

_I have shut up the house and gone to stay with Father. I have been very lonely lately and he needs me to act as hostess -Sylvia was as usual, making a mess of it. We hosted a dinner for the new Deputy Chief Commissioner last week. You remember Howard Roach don't you, from Russell St. His wife is a charming little thing, she was most complimentary about my table._

_I am so lonely without you my sweet husband, I wish we had been able to start our family before you left, it would have been a great comfort to me. Imagine how proud I would have been to introduce you to our handsome son or pretty daughter when you finally arrived home. I am sure that I will be a wonderful mother. All my friend's babies simply adore me and I can get Hilda Jenson's little boy to mind me when no one else can._

_The weeping cherry that you planted in the front garden has just started to..._

The lantern's light was starting to flicker. Jack checked his pocket watch; thirty-five minutes past three o'clock. Less than two hours before dawn. He carefully tucked the timepiece away before patting his pockets to check that his whistle and flash light were secure. The lantern gave its last as he tenderly kissed his wife's adieu (Your ever loving Rosie), folded it and slid the paper back into his top pocket to sit safely with the letter that he'd written earlier.

Jack settled back against the wall of the dugout, angling his tin hat to shield his face from the dripping water. Last night they had received word from HQ; there was to be a big push at dawn. Lt. Robinson was ordered to capture the Western end of the village of Passchendaele though, in the quiet, intelligent back of his mind, Jack knew it was a fool's errand. No-man's-land was a thick and muddy morass, knee deep in many places with very little in the way of cover. The rise that had once stood in front of where they we're dug in, had long since been blown apart by the heavy artillery.

Idly, the young lieutenant let himself become aware of the heavy barrage that had been going over his head off and on all night. His ears were pretty much deaf to the growl and boom and the shaking ground seemed almost natural. It had been raining almost constantly in recent weeks... or was it months? Supplies were having trouble getting through. Ammunition was running low, he hoped there would be enough for the morning. Jack himself was down to the last box and a half of bullets for his Webley, a situation that was making him distinctly uneasy.

By strange coincidence, the big guns suddenly felt silent. In the dark, the sudden absence of noise was rather unsettling. Gradually, as Jack's eyes stared blindly around he picked up reassuring signs of the other inhabitants of the dugout. Two or three heavy breathers; that would be his fellow Lieutenants, Hanson and West and probably one of the new chum 2nd Lieutenants_. Sinclair?_ It was hard to keep up with the new names. He was fairly sure that the person coughing and mumbling in his sleep was the other new chum, Brooks. The weary Lieutenant envied them the oblivion of their sleep.

A match strike and brilliant flare opposite him, caught Jack's empty gaze and he discovered he wasn't the only one unable to sleep. In silence he watched Captain Young lighting the bowl of his pipe. The sweet scent of good tobacco filled the tiny space, fought the omnipresent stench and was quickly defeated; but for the briefest of moments, Jack felt safe and warm in the embrace of that dark space. Then the Artillery started up again and the moment was lost.

Casually scratching at a festering louse bite behind his ear, Jack focused his mind on a more agreeable subject.

When Rosie's parcel had arrived yesterday it had been a double cause for celebration. Not only was there her letter, warm and loving in its ordinariness; something precious to be hoarded close to his heart. It was a also a link to home, to be jealously guarded as he memorised each passage and shared it (in bite sized pieces) with his fellow Lieutenants. Equally as cherished were the welcome comforts the parcel had supplied (mercifully intact and unmolested).

Straight away Jack had handed over two packets of plain chocolate to one of the Battalion medics; an anonymous gift to some of the young men who were suffering the most in their separation from home. He had rather guilty kept the third packet himself and had already allowed himself a small nibble at one corner. One of the pairs of thick woollen socks had instantly replaced his last rotting pair and the other pair... Jack's fingers slipped inside his shirt to stroke the warm wool... was secure for another day.

The last two items were also pure luxury; a tin of Dudgeon and Arnell's plug tobacco for his pipe and (most precious of all) a bottle of Heinz Tomato Relish. Any man who has lived for weeks on bully beef, corned meat and hard biscuit knows the value of a strong relish. Jack was prepared to protect that particular item with his life and he felt no compunction to share it with anyone else.

The short time before assembly drifted by as Jack concentrated on thoughts of his wife. Pretty Rosie, with her glossy curls, soft eyes and bubbling laugh, she was so far removed from this hell, untainted by the memories and the stench of death. Jack's mind automatically shied away from the knowledge that he had little hope of seeing his Rosie again and instead thought longingly of the sweet oblivion to be found in her arms.

Fumbling for his flash light, Jack checked his pocket watch again for the hundredth time. Eleven minutes before five o'clock. The men around him were beginning to stir. Captain Young lit a lantern and Jack flinched as the light assaulted his eyes. Jack quickly checked his pistol was loaded and ready and his long field knife was secure on his hip before standing to shake his mates' hands before moving, hunched over, to his trench at the end of the dugout. Just before he stepped out into the chill air, he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to face the Captain.

"Go with God Lieutenant."

"Thank you Sir." Jack saluted quickly and received one return before he and 2nd Lieutenant Brooks moved out to rouse the Sergeant.

xxxx

The rain beat down on the miserable men as they lined the trench. Lieutenant Robinson was standing on the first rung of a ladder; watch in one hand whistle clenched between his lips, and pistol loaded and ready. He glanced quickly around him in both directions and saw exactly what he expected. Those men, the seasoned ones like him, who had accepted that their life was over (it was just a matter of where and when the end would come) were pale but resolute. The others, mainly the younger chaps, were various shades of green and shaking. Some praying, others standing in silence; checking their weapon, kissing photos of mothers, wives and sweetheart. Somewhere out of sight was the sound of someone being sick.

Lieutenant Robinson's eyes returned to the hands of his watch, minutes and seconds ticking down to the end. The rain continued as someone beside him tried to shield a match enough to light their cigarette. The barrage of Artillery ceased and silence rushed in. _They may as well put a bloody sign up saying 'Attack Imminent'._ Jack shook his head, as he had many times before, and cursed the elite British officers and their rules of engagement.

Twenty-three minutes past the hour, he nodded to Sergeant Piggott. "Two minutes!" The men scrambled to secure their belongings.

Twenty-four minutes past the hour, he nodded again. "Fix Bayonets!" Piggott's shout was repeated along the trench and the metallic click of bayonets being fitted to their housings was like the rattle of a distant machine gun.

The men were ready, standing almost calm, lips mumbling their last prayers.

Seconds now;

14

13

12

11...

The rain stopped. Startled Jack looked at the sky, feeling as if time had somehow stopped. He was back to his watch in moments:

5

4

3

2

1

He blew the whistle as he pocketed his watch and started to climb the ladder. Men rose with him roaring their determination; other whistles were shrilling, echoing his as he rallied the men forward. Lt. Robinson was over the parapet in seconds, on his knees as the mud slowed him down but he quickly struggled free to stand, a clear target, whistle still blowing as rest of the men emerged to join him.

The Artillery resumed, falling only yards ahead of the line, just far enough ahead to shield them from the enemy. They struggled forward, straining to free their legs from the sucking mud. Jack was hardly aware of the men screaming and falling around him, desperate calls for the stretcher bearers and medic's simply blended together in the background. All Jack could only hear his laboured breathing, his heart pounding and the whistle screaming as he focused on the 1000 yards they had to cover. A soldier moved in front of him and his head literally exploded; Jack hardly noticed the near miss as he frantically wiped the blood from his eyes and continued to move towards their target.

But the mud was causing them to slow, the men could not keep up with the Artillery and they were being mowed down by the Kraut machine guns. Jack took to searching out craters where soldiers were pinned down or huddled in fear and physically dragging them up and out to continue on their way. More than once he found the soldier he was hauling was dead by the time they were in the open. It was only later that he thought to marvel that the bullets had come so near and yet had barely touched him.

He stumbled across a private, only his head just clear of the sucking quagmire, bubbling his fear as he started to drown. Jack, holstered his pistol and used both hands to release the man, straining to pull him free. The memory of the moment when he discovered that the black mud was the only thing holding the young man together, would haunt Jack's nightmares for the rest of his life; he was already moving forward again by the time the boy breathed his last.

The big English guns were silent now as the soldiers arrived at the point of their furthest reach and began to try and work their way through the rolls of barbed wire surrounding the town. The momentum of the Battalion had now slowed to a lethal pace, bodies were starting to pile up and ammo was running short. Lieutenant Robinson was desperately searching for a solution when the rain returned and began bucketing down.

xxxx

_Note:_

_Passchendaele – rural Belgian village (West Flanders province)._

_Dugout – underground shelter or bunker usually connecting 2 trenches._

_Letters from the front – these were notoriously unreliable. Not only was the post irregular, it had to pass the censors before it could be sent on. Parcels and letters from home would often go astray, especially as people often didn't know where their loved ones were. Rats were also a problem (the human kind). They would often steal the contents of the parcels before they reached the front line._

_The Argus – Main Melbourne newspaper._

_Lieutenant - In Australia we say Lef-ten-nant._

_Long dates between Jack's letters to Rosie – often men tended to write their letters diary style (a little bit each day)._

_Rosie's table - Rosie was being complimented on her table decorations and the menu not the quality of the furniture._

_Pocket watch – officers were gentlemen and had pocket watches (wrist watches were not in common use until the 1920's)._

_Webley Revolver – MkVI used a .455 calibre cartridge. They were a standard issue pistol during the Great War._

_Tin Hat – tin soldiers helmet._

_Dudgeon and Arnell's plug tobacco – most men smoked during the war. Cigarettes or tobacco for the officers were a basic part of rations. As an officer, Jack would have smoked a pipe. Plug tobacco is a large clump of tobacco that is sticky with natural resin._

_1000 yards – Just under 1km_


	2. Chapter 2

_All praise to the great Kerry Greenwood for inspiring my version of Jack Robinson. _

_My apologies to readers who are of German extraction. I do not normally use words such as Kraut or Hun, but it was the vernacular of the day and I felt it necessary to the story. BTW does anyone know what the Germans called the Aussies?_

_I am an avid reader, not an amateur historian but I have attempted to make the details of this story as accurate as possible. I couldn't have done it without my darling husband who fact checked for me. _

_Cheers to all of you who gave such a different story a chance and thanks for the reviews._

_Hope you enjoy this chapter. Please review, I get a bit paranoid when I don't hear from anyone._

xxxx

As he moved up and down the line, parallel to the barrier of vicious barbed wire that can catch a man and hold him for a snipers pleasure, Jack's agile brain seemed to be ticking over at an agonisingly slow rate. A bullet creased his tin hat, another left a smoking trail across his thigh, the shock wave from German Artillery strikes battered his ears, every second seemed like an hour and his men were paying for his delay with their lives. They'd lost far too many men in the run across no-man's-land, the distance and boggy condition of the ground between his section of the line and Passchendaele was just far too great. The age old British strategy of throwing as many soldiers as possible at the objective in the hope that enough would get through had failed them once again. At this rate, only a handful of men (if any) would still be alive by the time they cleared the wire.

Jack was just level with two soldiers, on their knees as they tried to cut their way through the obstacle, when one took a bullet to the throat and was dead before his hit the ground, his mate hardly flinched and just continued with his work. Suddenly furious at the waste, Lt Robinson stood straight and fired his pistol twice, miraculously hitting the shooter's mate with the second shot. Then, dropping back down into a half crouch, he ran back along the line, hoping to draw attention from the young digger that was still alive. His thoughts were in overdrive now. The men had limited ammo and would soon be left with nothing but their bayonet's and his wits to keep them alive. They had no realistic (or even vain) hope of taking Passchendaele now. Truth was that a frontal assault had always had little chance of success but the men were not afraid to do their duty. _God! Why can't I see a way through this?_ _They're all dying! I may as well have shot them myself!_

"Sir! Lieutenant Robinson, Sir!" He turned and dropped as low as he could, signalling for the speaker to do the same. It was a young Private (he hardly looked 16), Jack recognised him as a runner from HQ and sent a silent prayer for good news.

"What is it Private?"

"Sir, HQ have given the order to wi..." The Private's words were suddenly cut off as a mortar shell exploded him and a shock wave of shrapnel peppered his back, shoving him forward into the arms of the senior officer. Lt Robinson caught him instinctively and stared at the confused young man's lips as they fought to frame the vital orders.

"Withdraw?" Soundlessly, the injured soldier managed to nod, his frightened eyes pleading desperately to be saved. "Don't worry kid, I've got you." Jack leant in and took the young man's weight over his shoulder, grunting with the effort and sinking deeper into the mud. Lifting his whistle, Jack gave three sharp blasts. "Fall back! Fall back!" The cry was taken up and the endless drills for withdrawal kicked in.

The heavily burdened man strove to make his way back across no-man's-land, never giving a thought to the fact that half his body was now shielded. Each step was torturous, the weight of two men forcing him deeper into the sludge, he was almost sobbing as he fought to free each leg to take another step forward. Slowly he moved forward, every chance step onto a more solid footing was a blessed relief, though he didn't dare pause to enjoy it. Jack lost count of the number of times that he fell, only the other man's body acting as a barrier between Jack's face and the black muck. His powerful legs were shaking badly, his strength about to give out when he stumbled over the edge of a large crater and slid to the bottom with a great splash and the sound of the Private's agonised cry.

The high sides of their temporary refuge gave only an illusion of safety but at least it shielded them from the direct path of bullets and gave Jack a chance to examine their situation. The British Mortars were back at work now that most of the men had cleared the field and they were still about 300 yards from comparative safety. Jack looked down at the nameless Private, lying on his side against the bank of the deep crater. He was starting to shake, his back a bloody mess, visible even in the torrential rain. He would need help soon if he was going to survive and Jack wasn't sure that his legs were enough to get them there.

Jack started to shout. "Stretcher bearer!" Over and over he called, eyes on the German line, watching for a counter attack. He was just giving up hope and determining to continue on alone with the injured man when two stretcher bearers came slithering down the slope of the crater. They were totally focused on the injured man, quickly assessing the damage and working to roll him onto the canvas carrier. Pausing only for the reassurance that everything was in hand, Jack turned his eyes back to the front. Suddenly, he tensed; through the rain and smoke he could just make out dim shapes as they rose from the ground.

He un-holstered his gun. Checked it. _Only three bullets_. He broke open the pistol, shook out the spent cartridges and then hastily reloaded. It wasn't going to be enough to cover the retreat of the unarmed men. "Better get out of here fast chaps, the Huns are coming." Jack looked around; at his feet in the hands of a dead Digger was a rifle. He flushed in momentary shame and stepped off, ignoring the crack of bones, before quickly taking charge of the weapon. In recompense, Jack squandered precious moments to search the dead man's pockets, retrieving the last letters written to someone at home. Securing them (along with the soldier's identity disc), Jack then shoved the man's remaining ammo in his leg pocket before straightening to eyeball the increasingly close enemy.

_He needed to get back to the trench fast or risk getting caught on open ground._ Jack had waded across the water and was just beginning to scale the other side when the mortar's stopped falling.

"Medic!" A distressed voice was crying out somewhere to his left. "Medic!" For a split second Jack hesitated, looking back to check on the progress of Germans who were only about 200 yards away. The desperate voice came again and the pain and terror he could hear drove Jack to act. He flung himself through the mud and up and out into the open, making for the frantic call.

Covering fire from the trench followed him, one of the Diggers was rendering aid where they could. Ever aware of the looming danger, Jack willed his limbs to move faster, crawling when he fell, getting closer to the pleading voice. "God help me! Medic!" He was very close now. Suddenly Jack tumbled down another embankment landing on the injured soldier and eliciting an harrowing yell.

_It was Sergeant Piggott._ Climbing off the man, he was trying to rescue not kill, Jacks big deep voice automatically took over the shout and boomed out, "Stretcher Bearer!" even as he began to examine the situation. Piggott's leg was badly broken, twisted badly and full of shrapnel. It was clear to the Lieutenant that the man was in no condition to even crawl and, thanks to his earlier efforts with the Private, Jack no longer had the strength to carry him. Failing the arrival of a convenient stretcher, there were few options and only one Jack could possibly live with.

"Sorry Sergeant, I'm going to have to drag you out. I'll bind your legs before we move but this is going hurt like a bastard." He thrust the rifle into the injured man's hands. "The Huns are coming up behind, can you watch my back?" Piggott's jaw was set as he nodded, if it was the last thing he did, he'd see that the Lieutenant was covered. Knowing that there was a good chance they wouldn't survive, Jack concentrated on the task at hand, stopping only occasionally to call for the medic (though he knew it was too late to expect them to come now). He used his field knife to cut off the leather strap attached to Piggott's rifle and as quickly as he could, ignoring the pain he was causing, bound the damaged leg to the healthy one.

He was nearly done, when Piggott started to fire. A pained voice cried out and he felt rather than heard a rush down the side of the steep embankment behind him. He turned and stood to find the business end of a bayonet coming straight at him. The German soldier (bleeding from the chest and shoulder) was huge and clearly had no control of his movements as momentum carried him and the deadly blade towards the vulnerable man. Jack's reflexes kicked in; he braced himself and then, at the last possible moment, used the field knife in his hand to turn the blade ninety degrees before securing the weapon in his grasp. The soldier barrelled into him; sending the field knife flying, nearly knocking Jack off his feet, putting him at a disadvantage as they struggled over control of the rifle. A heavy shove was nearly the Aussie's undoing. Jack fell back into the mud beside Piggott; his hand tangled in the weapon's strap helping him to maintain his grip.

Time slowed.

The German soldier had the advantage.

Jack found himself looking up, helpless to do anything but hold on.

He braced himself.

His enemy

Lifted

One

Hobnailed

Boot

And

Stamped

Down

With All his might.

Lt Jack Robinson screamed, the heavy blow like a searing knife to his groin; tearing, blooming, bloody agony as it radiated through his body. In spite of the pain, his body reacted instinctively and his legs automatically kicked out and knocked the German off his feet.

The man mountain was felled.

Down the soldier came.

Falling towards his victim.

Falling directly onto the bayonet that Sergeant Piggott had just angled up between them.

Jack's instinct was now to curl up and die. He lay in the filthy mud, writing in agony and fighting for breath as the corpse's weight crushed down on him.

"Lieutenant, Lieutenant! Are you all right sir? We've got to get out of here." Machine gun fire bought down another Kraut as he appeared above them.

Desperate to get through to the tortured man, Piggott resorted to his Sergeant's shout.

"Robinson! This is not a fucking holiday camp. On your fucking feet now! Hup!" His early days as a grunt ordered around by a sadistic Drill Sergeant, had Jack pushing out from underneath the body and up, moving almost without conscious thought.

"Get us the fuck out of here! That's an order Lieutenant!" Gradually the Sergeant's shouts and the effort to move started to clear the Jack's mind. As he regained his focus he found himself, out of the crater and wading though the fetid bog, dragging Piggott by his jacket collar and only 100 yards from their trench. His body was on fire, every step sent a fresh shaft of pain through his lacerated balls, he wanted to vomit, he wanted to die. Behind him Piggott was still shouting abuse and hopefully hitting every target he shot at. Jack gritted his teeth, pushed the anguish to the back of his mind and kept moving. Piggott had just saved his life, no way was Jack going to give up now.

Fifty yards... Piggott had stopped shooting. Jack knew the Sergeant wasn't dead, he was still turning the air blue around them.

Forty yards... He could see men over the top of the parapet. Shouting as they fought through the swamp, their words distorted through the buzzing in Jack's ears and the burr of the guns.

Thirty yards... His vision was blurring, tears were flooding his face as he strained forward, pushing himself to the edge of his endurance and then beyond.

Their rescuers reached them as the young man's strength finally gave out. Two caught him under the arms as two more relieved him of his burden and then without a pause they raced the wounded men back to the relative safety of the Allies line.

Epilogue:

Of the Fifty men that had left the trench with Lt Robinson that morning, only twelve survived undamaged enough to fight another day. The 3rd Division had suffered the highest casualties of the action and was taken off the line on 22nd October 1917. Robinson, Piggott and the Private were removed to an Aid station. The Private's spine was not damaged and eventually recovered – he survived the war and returned to his home in Sydney praising the strength and courage of the man who had saved him. Fred Piggott's leg was set and the shrapnel removed. He healed well and returned to duty where he covered himself with glory and eventually received a field promotion to Warrant Officer. Jack's recovery was less easy. The German's boot had done him a serious injury and he spent many weeks in great pain and fighting infection. Eventually though, he too recovered enough to rejoin his Battalion; just in time for the next major offensive. Jack and Fred's experience formed a bond that turned into an enduring friendship after the war; though Jack was known to get terse if Fred Piggott ever tried to call him a hero.

The End

Note:

Runner – Usually a very young or new soldier, chosen for his ability to move quickly, assigned to run messages around the trenches and the battlefield.

HQ – Headquarters

The First Battle of Passchendaele - The Allied plan to capture Passchendaele village was based on inaccurate information about German strength and position. There had been almost constant heavy rain and the ground between the 3rd Australian Division and the German lines was a natural bog. The battle was a German defensive success though both sides great losses. The 3rd Battalion lost 3200 men, killed or wounded.


End file.
